


Should old acquaintance be forgot

by sublightsleeper



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Underage Drinking, Voyeurism, vague mention of previous peter/mj
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 02:12:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13225998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublightsleeper/pseuds/sublightsleeper
Summary: “I haven’t been able to, at all. Not since.” Peter gestures idly at himself, and Tony takes it to mean ‘since the spider bit me’. “I guess I’m just doomed to never be able to get off again.” When the kid laughs, it’s watery and tense.Tony can’t imagine the stress of being sixteen, dealing with all of the Spider-Man bullshit, and not being able to do anything about teenage hormones. That was a cruel cocktail. “Maybe you’re just not doing it right.” Judging by the glare that nets him, Peter doesn’t agree. Tony shrugs, and pushes himself deeper back against the plus chair so that he’s further away from the kid before he can offer to help. “How do you do it?”





	Should old acquaintance be forgot

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Spideriron New Year's Mini Bang! It was a ton of fun to write, and I got my prompt from https://sparcina.tumblr.com/post/168516506123/lists-of-prompts-for-the-spideriron-new-year-mini, so go grab one too!

Tony has always prided himself on his New Year’s eve parties. 

But those kinds of parties seemed like a lifetime ago. Back when he drank, back when he partied, back when he had friends who would show up on the holiday and help him ring in the new year.

Rhodey was doing PT in Tokyo at a state-of-the-art facility, and Pepper was...somewhere else. She hadn’t taken it well when Tony backed out of the engagement, and he can’t blame her. But he doesn’t love her, not like he used to. They’re both different people now.

Gone was the drunken playboy, surrounded by beautiful women and pulsing music. Now Tony was just a broken man with the scattered remnants of a family, and nothing to do to celebrate. It seemed fitting, in a way. What did he really have to celebrate?

 _Boss, Peter Parker is outside of the window._ There’s a moment’s pause. Friday had taken a liking to dramatic pauses. Tony was starting to think he needed to control her media consumption a little better. _He’s outside of the window on the 91st floor._

The loft, not the lab. Huh. Tony looks at the half finished work he hasn’t paid any real attention to in hours, and pushes away from the workbench, his back popping wonderfully. A groan low in his throat, and Tony takes the elevator back up to the loft. “Let him in, Friday. I don’t want him falling off of the building.” Because that was just what he conscience needed.

But there’s no spider suit waiting for him when Tony strolls into his living room. Just a pile of wind swept teenager sprawled out over his couch like he was spread on with a butter knife. Jesus. Tony’s eyes immediately track to the sliver of skin where Peter’s ‘Never Trust an Atom’ shirt had ridden up above the waistband of his jeans.

This was part of why he’d broken things off with Pepper. Tony had found himself making comparisons that he shouldn’t. Wondering things that would make him end up behind bars if the state of New York had anything to say about it.

Like how soft Peter’s skin would feel under his palms, or how his name would sound gasped out by those lips. It was where his mind went any time the blood rushed south of the border, and that made it awkward to have sex with anyone, but especially Pepper.

She deserved better. And Tony deserved to ice skate in hell. He snaps his gaze up, just in time to get nearly blinded by a big, bright smile. “Hey Mr. Stark.” There’s a flush to Peter’s cheeks that doesn’t have anything to do with the cold. When he throws his arm up over the arm of the couch, Tony is finally able to clock it.

(Being a genius doesn’t help when you can’t think straight.)

“How much booze did it take?” Peter stares at him for a long moment, and Tony can see the wheels turning behind those dark eyes. After a few seconds, Peter sits up, but immediately throws a hand out to steady himself against the back of the couch.

“A  _ lot _ . We made an experiment out of it, me Ned and MJ. And they were pretty drunk too. Ned passed out before eleven, and when the ball dropped…” Peter’s eyes are glassy, and he’s not looking at Tony, he’s staring at a spot over his shoulder. “MJ kissed me. And we-”

Sick, hot jealousy roils in Tony’s stomach, and he does his best to stamp down on it. Peter was a sixteen year old kid. He wasn’t Tony’s in any way, shape, or form. It was good that he had someone that he trusted with his secret, who he could be intimate with. Not that it made it any easier to swallow.

“But I couldn't.” Peter’s voice catches in his throat. He lowers his eyes, toying with the hem of his t-shirt. “I mean, she did. I made sure she did. With uh, my mouth. Because I couldn’t with um, my uh-”

It takes Tony a moment to parse through all the ‘um’s and ‘uh’s to catch on to what was being said. “It’s okay, finishing too fast is par for the course when you first start out. Next time, the best thing you can do is-”

“No, Mr. Stark. I  _ couldn’t _ .” Peter bites down on his bottom lip, and Tony feels his whole world zero in on it, the same way adrenaline made the world grey out around him when he was in a fight in the suit.

“You couldn’t come?” Tony’s voice feels like it comes from somewhere else. Peter nods, head hanging. Tony desperately needs a drink, but he can’t go backwards, not now. He moves to sit in the chair nearest the couch, but still a safe distance away from the kid. “Even inside of her?” Tony cringes at the crude phrasing, but he doesn’t want to risk anything not being communicated right, either by Peter’s intoxication, or his innocence.

“I haven’t been able to, at all. Not since.” Peter gestures idly at himself, and Tony takes it to mean ‘since the spider bit me’. “I guess I’m just doomed to never be able to get off again.” When the kid laughs, it’s watery and tense.

Tony can’t imagine the stress of being sixteen, dealing with all of the Spider-Man bullshit, and not being able to do anything about teenage hormones. That was a cruel cocktail. “Maybe you’re just not doing it right.” Judging by the glare that nets him, Peter doesn’t agree. Tony shrugs, and pushes himself deeper back against the plus chair so that he’s further away from the kid before he can offer to help. “How do you do it?”

“What do you mean how do I do it?” Peter’s voice ratchets up a notch, and threatens to break on him. His hands flap out around him, no real gesture enough to convey his dismay at the idea that he might be doing it wrong. But then, he deflates, watching Tony with a worried look on his face. “...how am I supposed to do it? I just...touch it?”

This might be the most ridiculous situation Tony has ever gotten himself into. And he has done some red letter dumb shit in his life. The words leave him before he has a chance to contain them, months of pent up frustration finally leaking with a simple “Show me.”

Peter gapes at him, looking like a landed fish. His mouth moves, like he’s planning to say something, winding up to it, before he blows out a breath and reaches for his zipper. Tony’s heart slams against his rib cage. He should stop this. He could walk away right now, put Peter to bed and pretend none of this ever happened.

And yet, he does nothing. Pinned to the spot by the sound of the zipper’s teeth slowly releasing, his gaze following Peter’s pale fingers where they open the vee of denim and push his boxers down beneath his balls.

A part of him is infinitely relieved to see the tuft of downey hair leading down to Peter’s already filling erection. The rest of him is just trying to breathe. Peter keeps his eyes down, fingers curling one by one along the length of his shaft until he’s got himself in hand, giving a few tugs. It’s then that he looks up to Tony for guidance.

“You don’t use any liquid?” Tony’s mind has always been good at compartmentalizing. It’s the only reason he’s able to speak, steady and playing at disinterested. Like this is a science project, and not the vision that’s been haunting his showers since he first laid eyes on Peter Parker in his aunt’s living room.

Peter shrugs, but he doesn’t stop those little tugs on his dick, eyes on Tony. “Liquid makes it easier. More glide. You want lubrication.” He knows he should tell the kid to go get some lotion. It would last longer, and it was more practical, especially for a teenager. But he doesn’t. Because no matter how calm and collected he may sound, Tony’s libido was firmly in the driver’s seat. “Lick your hand.”

There’s a question written in the curve of Peter’s brow, but he reluctantly releases his hold on himself to lick a hot strip up along his palm before he takes hold of himself again. Tony has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound. “Good. And remember that you’ve got other erogenous zones. Nipples, for one.” Tony’s thoughts are two colliding trains. One telling him to leave it alone, the other begging for moremoremore. “Pinch one.”

There’s no question this time. Peter pushes the hand not busy beneath his shirt, and Tony gets an up close and personal view of the planes of his stomach before Peter tweaks one pink nipple with his thumb and index finger. Peter moans, back arching. “That um...that feels good, I mean. I haven’t.” The thought seems to end there as Peter moves to his other nipple, hips beginning to lift off of the couch.

He’s the most beautiful thing Tony has ever laid eyes on. Especially like this, shirt rucked up under his armpits and legs spread indecently wide, chasing his pleasure with the kind of single minded hedonism that came with drunken youth. “Good.” Tony’s voice isn’t so even now. There’s a touch of gravel to it that he can’t clear from his throat. “Your balls, too. Take them in your hand. Squeeze a little.”

Peter gives one last tweak to his nipple, following the roll of his hips down until he can cup his balls. On top of the hand stripping away at his cock, Tony can see the first pearl of precome building on the tip. It makes his mouth go dry.

“Maybe you couldn’t come because you don’t want to be inside of someone. Maybe you want someone inside of you.” Peter’s heavy lidded eyes snap open, and he looks at Tony like he’s the only thing in the world that matters. His ‘yeah’ is little more than a breath.

“Get the tip of your finger wet.” Tony inclines his head towards Peter’s dick, slick and shiny now. As Peter rubs his index finger against the head, watching in secondhand fascination with the string of it stretches from his dick to his finger, Tony reaches down to adjust himself through his slacks. He’s so hard he can barely think straight.

“I don’t want you to put it in. I want you to just press. Feel it there.” Peter lifts his hips enough to shove his jeans down past his knees to his ankles. Legs spread as far as the fabric with allow, his presses the tip of his finger against his entrance, head thudding back against the couch.

When Peter moans, it’s a full bodied sound that seems to rattle through the kid’s bones. “Mr. Stark. Please, I need-” Tony knows exactly what he needs. He needs to be bent over that couch and fucked open, nice and slow and deep until he’s sobbing. Begging for it.

But he can’t, not until Peter is eighteen. The state of New York says seventeen is legal enough, but in the court of opinion, eighteen would still be pushing it. So Tony would have to be patient. His fingers dig in against the arm of the chair. “Push it in. But not far.”

It’s mesmerizing, watching Peter’s finger disappear up to that first knuckle. He’s bucking now, trying to fuck up into his fist and down into the intrusion where he’s penetrating himself. There’s a fine sheen of sweat over his bottom lip, and Peter’s lips are parted as he pants, breath loud in the quiet. “I--I’m-”

“Come for me.” It isn’t a request, and Tony shouldn’t feel so good at how fast Peter responds to the command, shooting hot white ropes against the tight ring of his fist, Tony’s name like a debauched prayer on his lips.

Tony counts to ten. Then twenty. Then thirty. And when his heart rate finally begins to slow, Tony speaks.

“See? You were doing it wrong.”


End file.
